


Home Comfort

by Elvarya85



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Cuddling, Fluff, M/M, MY SUMMARY MAKES THIS SOUND LIKE PORN BUT I SWEAR IT ISN'T, a bit of angst, emotionally constipated assholes being emotionally constipated assholes, food comfort, get-together, h/c, ish, preslash, shieldhusbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 15:26:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvarya85/pseuds/Elvarya85
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint sometimes got anxiety attacks after ops, but Phil knows how to calm him down and bring his archer down from the surge of adrenaline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Um, quick explanation of what's happening to Clint at the beginning here. I based it off of something that happens to me. I call them anxiety attacks, but I'm not sure if that's what they actually are. It's just an easy fallback term.
> 
> Basically, I'll get these stretches of time (sometimes up to 18 hours) where my heart is beating really fast and I can't seem to get enough air to be comfortable, and I feel really scared, but I don't know what I'm scared of, and being touched by anyone is so horrible, it's almost painful (which sucks because I have friends whose go-to reaction is to hug me). The first time this happened, it lasted about 18 hours, and I was forced to go through school trying to pretend I wasn't about to cry because I didn't know what was happening to me.
> 
> The best solution I've found for it is to just eat everything in sight and wait it out. Tea also helps, but only a little.
> 
> Anyway, it happened to me the other day again, and I wanted to include it in a fic. This was actually meant to be a quick oneshot, just the first part with Phil here, with maybe a sequel from Clint, but then it turned into this.
> 
> Um...yeah. So I wrote it really quickly, so sorry for any erros (because I know there are many).
> 
> And if anyone has a better term for exactly what's happening to Clint/me, I'd love to hear it, or any possible solutions

Clint had anxiety attacks.

At least, that’s what Phil called them. Maybe Clint had a different term for what happened to him, but they never talked about them after, so Phil didn’t know.

It was usually after a particularly difficult op, after the action and surges of adrenaline. His best guess was that Clint couldn’t bring himself down from the high of excitement, danger, and endorphins. 

So he’d wind up at Phil’s door, whether Phil was in his small apartment off-base (which meant that Clint had somehow traveled that distance, probably in a cab, and Phil really didn’t want to know what that put him through in his condition) or his cramped quarters on-base. They’d developed a sort of code for it. Phil would get a knock on his door (and he got pretty good at guessing when Clint would show up after ops, though there was still the occasional surprise visit, so he generally tried to make sure to be in his quarters the night after ops, close and within reach if Clint needed him) and he’d open the door to find Clint standing there, looking small and scared, shoulders hunched. He’d look at Phil with blue eyes filled with fear and need. 

Phil would look at him and say, “Alright, Agent?”

Clint would shake his head, uncertain and forlorn, and Phil would step back, let him in without a word. Phil knew the drill. Clint would walk over to the couch and take off his boots, setting them gently to the side, and Phil would go to the kitchen, quickly assembling a turkey sandwich for him. 

Clint needed a lot of things when he got like this. He needed reassurance, he needed a familiar routine. He needed someone to take care of him. Because that meant comfort and safety and no one trying to kill him. It meant reassurance that he was okay, and so was everyone else.

So Phil would make the sandwich (always the same; turkey, swiss, and an excessive amount of dijon on both pieces of wheat bread, just as Clint liked it) and bring it over to him on a plate. He’d hand it to the man who was now curling up on his couch and sit down beside him, not touching him. Clint didn’t want to be touched right now, he knew that. Phil had made the mistake of reaching out to him once before, and he hadn’t ever made the mistake again. Clint had shrunk away, as if Phil’s touch had physically pained him. 

No, Clint needed to be the one to initiate the contact. When he was ready. 

So, he left a good six inches between them, a buffer of space to let Clint breathe and take his time.

Clint would sit there for a while, staring at the plate in his hands, crouched on Phil’s couch with his legs beneath him, resting in a silence that only someone of his skill set could achieve, so still that it didn’t even seem like he was breathing.

Sometimes, it would only take a few moments. Other times, it would be longer. Minutes. Hours. However long Clint needed.

But eventually, Clint would let out a deep breath and lean sideways. He’d lay his head on Phil’s shoulder and take the sandwich from the plate, eating it slowly. Phil would wrap an arm around Clint’s shoulders. The archer would be tense, sometimes even shaking slightly, but he seemed to relax into the touch and he seemed to breathe better, easier. He was calming and unclenching for him. He’d press into him and close his eyes as he finished the sandwich and set his plate aside, then he’d stay in that position, curled up against Phil’s side.

Any paperwork waiting to be filed after the most recent op could wait, he was focused on taking care of Clint.

Somewhere in there, Phil would quietly convince Clint to move to the bed. It didn’t take much, just a gentle nudge and a quiet suggestion. Nothing sexual had ever happened - as much as Phil had thought about it, thought about pulling Clint close and pressing their lips together, reassuring him that he was safe and so very, very loved.

But he never did. He couldn’t take advantage of him like that. 

So instead, he would guide him to the bed and throw back the blanket, then assist Clint in tugging off his shirt and pull off his own. Clint would climb in without a word and Phil would climb in behind him. Clint would immediately curl into a ball, beginning to shiver slightly until Phil took his place behind him. He’d mold himself to Clint’s back and slip an arm around his waist, lending his warmth and protection, and he’d feel Clint take a deep breath as Phil held him tightly, the weight of Phil’s body a reassuring anchor, something to focus on and cling to as the steady push and pull of Phil’s breathing lulled him into a dreamless sleep.

They never spoke about it. Not the next morning, not the next week, never. Phil would be awoken the next morning by Clint pulling out of his grasp and sitting up. He’d reach for his shirt and look down at Phil, who now had his eyes open, watching him.

Phil always wanted nothing more than to reach out, wrap his arms around Clint and ask him to stay, to let his eyes say everything he was too afraid to vocalize.

But he never would.

He would never take this from Clint. If Clint needed to feel another person there, he’d rather it be him wrapping his arms around him and squeezing him tightly as he drifted off into sleep than some stranger who didn’t know him, didn’t love him like Phil did.

So he watched Clint go with sad eyes, as he always did, seeing the man regain the certainty in his step and the strength in his shoulders as the sleep rolled off of them.

And then Clint was gone, leaving Phil alone with nothing but a warm spot on the bed and a dirty plate to assure him that those nights they spent together were real and theirs, something they shared without the need of acknowledgement.

Even if it wasn’t everything Phil wanted, even if it left him feeling empty and wasted at the end of their time together, and even if he’d beat off more times than he could count to the thought of Clint’s body beneath his, whispering his name so lovingly as he was brought to climax...

It was enough.

~*~

Clint always left without a word.

It wasn’t because he had nothing to say. In reality, Phil made him want to run and jump and sing and pour his heart out to the one who owned it entirely.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t put Phil in that position, feeling obligated to continuing to allow Clint into his home and his bed when he needed it desperately (because the bastard was good enough that he would) but at the same time questioning every touch between them. 

He actually wasn’t sure if how he felt about Phil had come about before or after their arrangement, but he couldn’t deny that it had exacerbated it. The closeness, the intimacy, the feeling of being taken care of by someone whose main concern was making sure that he was going to be okay...

So he couldn’t say anything in the morning. Couldn’t put Phil in that position, couldn’t stand the possibility that Phil would say no.

Phil was his handler. It was his job to get Clint through ops and out the other side with as little issue as possible. He was probably just doing his job. Granted, he was going a bit above and beyond (he knew agents and handlers who hardly spoke when not on mission) but Clint tended to go above and beyond in his ops, too, putting his own life in danger far more than necessary (because why half ass things, right?) so he figured Phil was just trying to do the same.

Anyway, even if he wanted to tell Phil (which he didn’t really know if he did, he just knew that every time he saw Phil and thought of the possibility of someone else acting faster and snapping him up, he got this pain in his chest that made him want to bound up to him and kiss him before the man had time to react) it just never seemed like the right time. When he woke in Phil’s bed, he was always better than he had been. His heart had slowed, he was able to breathe deeply and feel like he was getting the necessary supply of oxygen, the adrenaline that wouldn’t stop pumping through his veins had faded. But even if the physical affects had declined, he was still vulnerable. He’d mentally run the scenarios more times than he could count. He’d wake in the morning, feeling the wonderful warmth of Phil pressed against his back, his hot breath ghosting, barely perceptible, over Clint’s neck and raising goosebumps across his skin. 

He’d turn in Phil’s arms, rolling over in place to face him. The movement would wake Phil and he’d look at Clint in confusion, because this was breaking from the routine they’d cultivated from countless of such visits, and that’s when Clint would lean in to seal their lips together.

And that’s where he lost his certainty of how things would play out.

There were so many possibilities, and most of them weren’t even things Clint wanted to consider. Phil would laugh. Phil would be disgusted. Phil wouldn’t react at all to the kiss and once Clint pulled back, he’d give him a somber talk about how he thought Clint had misinterpreted and maybe they shouldn’t do this anymore...

Or maybe he’d pull Clint in closer, let his hand slip up to cup his jaw, kiss him back until Clint let out a small little sigh, and that’d be that. 

But he almost didn’t want to consider that possibility at all. He couldn’t see that particular fantasy ever becoming reality, anyway.

So they continued with their arrangement. Clint curled up with Phil at his back, sleeping peacefully until he awoke and left, and then he wasn’t Phil anymore. He was Agent Coulson, his handler, ardent professional, and the one who was constantly reminding Clint about the regs, particularly the one that had to do with ‘fraternization between agents’...

So anyway, it was pretty much clear that Coulson wasn’t interested. Which...wasn’t necessarily fine, but Clint could cope.

Maybe.

Anyway, that’s how they continued for a long while.

Clint wasn’t really sure what had changed. He had a few guesses, though.

He’d been out on an op. It had started out easy, gather intel, a milkrun compared to some of the shit Clint had done in his time with SHIELD.

But unfortunately, some rookie back at HQ had made some mistake somewhere (and if Clint ever found out who it was, he swore they were getting a creative threat stuck to their bedroom door with an arrow) and it had wound up with Clint tackled by a target’s security detail with something solid and heavy slamming into his back, knocking the wind out of him and, no doubt, breaking a rib or two.

A gunshot rang out in the place, and there was a familiar voice shouting at the mercs to get away from him. Then Phil was leaning over him, frantically checking for any life-threatening injuries.

The last thing he heard was Phil’s voice in his ear, screaming his name.

He awoke later as he was jostled onto a stretcher and his eyes opened, refusing to focus, everything spinning around him, dazzling colors and light.

“Clint, can you hear me?” Phil’s voice was frantic above the pulsing sound of a helicopter.

He tried to reply, but someone seemed to have filled his mouth with cotton, because it felt dry and he couldn’t get his tongue to work properly, so he just let out a small mumbling moan.

“Clint, we’re gonna get you back to base,” Phil said, voice tight with concern. “You’re going to be okay. You hear me Clint? Clint!”

There was something in Phil’s voice as he hovered over him, some tone that called to Clint. He struggled to identify it, but he was slipping back into unconsciousness, and the last thing he thought before the dark washed back over him was, _He called me Clint._

The next time he awoke, it was dim. It was night, he assumed, from the low lighting of the medical ward, though there wasn’t an window around for him to verify. He was in an uncomfortable hospital bed - one step up from a cot, really - with an annoying, papery hospital gown over him. Which meant his t-shirt had probably been cut off to get to his chest, because he looked down, noticing that he couldn’t quite get a full breath without a certain amount of pain, and sure enough, there were bandages wrapped tightly around his middle, setting the broken ribs. 

Damn. He’d actually liked that shirt.

He easily recognized the place, and wasn’t happy about it. He’d spent more time in medical in the past than he’d care for, and he spent more time than strictly acceptable avoiding this place. He rolled his eyes, reaching up to scrub his hands over his face only to have the action impeded by the IV running into his arm. He looked up, seeing that it was just water to keep him hydrated. Judging from how much was left in the bag, they’d either changed it and he’d been here for a long-ass time, or he hadn’t been there that long at all.

He definitely hoped for the first one.

He took a deep breath, aware that his throat was rough and irritated, but he called out, “Hello? Anyone home?”

The head of an extremely cheerful doctor who’d introduced himself to Clint on countless occasions (but whose name Clint kept pointedly forgetting. He couldn’t help it, he had some kind of mental block when it came to the names of medical professionals he’d rather not see ever) poked through the curtain. “Ah, Agent Barton! Glad to see you awake.” He pulled back the curtain, coming in with a smile. “Let’s check your vitals.”

“‘M fine,” Clint said, an automatic reaction to a doctor suggesting that he take a look at him. “How long have I been here? When can I leave?” He had somewhere he desperately wanted to be.

The doctor tutted his tongue. “They brought you in about four hours ago and I need to check you out before you can leave. Let’s see here...” He picked up Clint’s chart, flipping through a few pages quickly, giving it cursory glances. “All things considered, I’d say you’re in good shape. You didn’t get a concussion, no broken bones, other than your ribs... You didn’t even get scratched deep enough to require stitches. You received two broken ribs, a lot of bruising, and your back is pretty well scratched up, but you’ll heal and I doubt it will even scar.”

Clint arched a brow at him. “So can I go, then?”

The doctor shifted. “Well, I’d like to keep you overnight...”

Clint rephrased his question. “If I were to get out of this bed and walk out of here, would you stop me? Or do I need to fight my way out and risk doing even more damage to myself?”

The doctor let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re free to go, Agent Barton.”

He grinned, sitting up and trying to ignore the way his breath hitched as the motion caused the bandages around his ribs to squeeze a bit tighter. He looked to the side, seeing a small folded pile of clothes. 

“Your handler left some clothing for you,” the doctor added. Clint wasn’t exactly sure how he was supposed to feel about that, so he just nodded. The doctor stood there for a few moments longer, then shrugged. “Alright, I’ll let you...get to it.” 

He turned to leave, and Clint said, “Hey, wait, what time is it?”

The doctor turned back and looked at his watch. “It’s a little after 10:30.”

Clint grinned. “Great, I’ve still got time!” He had to show up the night of the op, or it didn’t count. And he needed to make this one count.

“Time for what?”

Clint looked at him deviously but didn’t explain, reaching for the shirt and the doctor just shook his head and left, content to let the question go unanswered. He didn’t have time for answers.

He had somewhere to be.

~*~

Phil was in his quarters on this particular evening. He didn’t quite know why - Clint was in medical, he wouldn’t be released until the morning, the doctor had told him. But it still felt wrong to sleep at his apartment after an op had gone so horribly wrong.

So he was alone in his quarters, standing in the kitchenette, staring at the pile of paperwork he hadn’t yet been able to bring himself to start, and absently bouncing a tea bag in a chipped mug of hot water. The quarters, though small, felt abnormally large without the presence of another body pressed against his, without the responsibility of taking care of his agent for the night.

He sighed, staring at the mug as he waited for his tea to steep, the comforting aroma of chai and spice rising into the air.

There was a knock at the door.

He actually jumped slightly. He had a visitor. He never received visitors here.

Well, he received one, but that one was currently unconscious up in the medical bay with two broken ribs, and probably some wounded pride to boot.

Confused, he walked to the door, acutely aware that he was currently wearing some loose-fitting Captain America pajama bottoms and a SHIELD training shirt that he honestly didn’t remember acquiring, it’d been so long now, but it was old and worn soft with age and something of a comfort to him, if he was being honest.

He pulled the door open, nearly dropping his mug in surprise.

Clint stood at his door, looking at him sheepishly.

Phil fumbled for words, eventually sputtering out an awkward, “Alright, Agent?” for back of a better reaction to Clint appearing at his door at 11:00 at night.

Clint looked at him for a long moment, then broke from the script entirely and shrugged, saying, “I suppose that depends.”

Phil’s hand was clutching the door tightly and he was still blocking the way, unconsciously refusing to let Clint into his quarters.

That...stung a bit, and Clint tried not to let it wound his pride. He could do this, he’d come this far. He tried to focus on Phil, and on what he’d come here to accomplish.

Phil was staring at him, mouth slightly open, and Clint’s eyes fell to his lips. He momentarily considered throwing out the whole speech he’d been putting together in his head while he rushed down here from medical, but _no,_ he was going to do this properly, thank you very much.

Phil was finally the one who broke the silence. “Depends on what?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something, sir,” he said, mentally kicking himself for falling back into the familiar title. “Can I come in?”

Phil stared at him for a couple seconds, and then nodded, stepping back to let Clint enter. 

“Shouldn’t you be down at medical, Agent?” Coulson asked. “You doctor told me explicitly that you weren’t being released until tomorrow.” _Otherwise I’d have been there_ , he silently added.

Clint shrugged. “I had other ideas.”

A small amused smile touched Phil’s lips - the Phil Coulson equivalent of a laugh and a grin, Clint knew. “So what can I do for you? Because it doesn’t look like you’re here for the usual _sandwich and cuddling treatment_.”

They both visibly winced at his words, knowing that such impersonal terms really didn’t fully encompass their usual arrangement, but Clint tried to move on from it as quickly as possible. “Like I said, I wanted to talk to you about something.” Clint’s heart was pumping hard, but he knew it had nothing to do with leftover adrenaline from the mission, and everything to do with the man standing before him in fucking Captain America pajamas and a t-shirt that hugged his chest way too well. 

“Listen, sir-Phil,” he quickly corrected, flushing deeply red. This entire thing really wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. He took a deep breath and finished the rest of it in one long rush of words. “Okay, we’ve totally been dancing around this for so long, don’t even try to deny it, and I’m tired of pretending that I don’t want you so bad it physically fucking hurts me so Phil will you please go out with me or something because this whole pretense that we’re just asset and handler and that there’s nothing else going on here is getting even more ridiculous by the day.” He watched Phil with wide eyes, honestly not sure where about half of the words that had come out of his mouth had come from, but he also wasn’t sure if about a third of them were comprehensible at all, so it might not even matter anyway.

Phil stared at him for a moment, eyes slightly widened. His expression was, however, entirely unreadable. Anything beyond his (entirely understandable, Clint reasoned) surprise wasn’t shining through all that clearly. Clint just looked at him anxiously, each passing moment further convincing him that he’d just made a monumental fucking mistake.

When Phil still hadn’t said anything, he let his head drop and he nodded. “It’s okay, sir, I get it. I’ll just...go...”

He turned to leave when a hand caught his wrist. Clint looked back to find Phil holding his arm, looking at him with a small smile touching his lips. And then he said the two words that spoke volumes, that said everything Phil had been wanting to say for so long.

“Don’t go.”

And it was like Clint could breathe again, like all the weight from his shoulders and the pains from his ribs disappeared, and he stumbled forward, wrapping his arms around Phil and burying his face in the man’s shoulder and taking in the scent of him, the same one that had surrounded him on each night he’d ever spent with him. Phil held him carefully, trying not to squeeze him to tightly, but holding him close all the same. He kept one arm wrapped around Clint and brought the other up to the archer’s face, feeling the light stubble there. He leaned in, slowly, being sure nothing would catch Clint off-guard, and pressed their lips together in a light, chaste kiss that was everything Clint had ever imagined it to be.

They kissed, long and sweet, neither pressing for more, as if scared they’d destroy the moment by bringing any other kind of desire into it. When the kiss finally ended, Phil kept his hand at Clint’s cheek, and he looked into the man’s blue eyes earnestly. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that...”

Clint’s face broke into a grin. “Then why didn’t you, sir?”

Phil blushed lightly. “I didn’t think you saw me that way. I thought...I thought you just saw me as a body to lean against, all those nights you stopped by.”

He pressed another quick, soft kiss to Phil’s lips. “You’ve always been more than that,” he promised.

Phil gave him a soft, fond laugh and detached him enough to pull him to the couch, a crude facsimile of their usual arrangement, but he immediately wrapped both arms around Clint’s shoulders, and Clint’s arms wrapped back around his waist. They stayed like that for a moment, neither one speaking. Finally, Phil murmured, “Just so you know, I’m not keen on letting go of what’s mine. You’ll stick around, right?” His tone was playful, but his eyes were serious.

Clint looked at him for a moment, trying to find the right words to answer, finally settling on leaning in to press his forehead to Phil’s and whispering, “Always.”

~*~

Four years later, they’d exchanged rings, seamlessly blended their lives together, and Clint still got anxiety attacks, though they weren’t nearly as much of a problem anymore. Still scary as balls, still uncomfortable and annoying, but he had Phil. He’d go to what had long-since become _their_ quarters and Phil would already have the sandwich made, same as always, because he knew. He was prepared. He’d curl up with his head in Phil's lap, feeling it all fading and draining from him as Phil’s fingers idly played in his hair.

More often than not, he fell asleep there, curled up in Phil’s lap, but the man always woke him with gentle words and a hand brushed over his cheek, convincing him to move to their bed. He’d help a still-mostly-asleep Clint to stand, pulling the clothes off of him with gentle touches, and then he’d help Clint into bed. Clint would automatically do his best impersonation of an octopus, holding onto Phil and intertwining their bodies, squeezing tightly, but Phil didn’t really mind.

It meant they were there. They were safe. They had each other and they’d make it through another night, wake in the morning and have blueberry eggo waffles and massive amounts of coffee, and the world would keep spinning around them, whole and perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, that was that ^_^ Hopefully it wasn't too bad...
> 
> Anyway, comments are always appreciated, here or on tumblr
> 
>  
> 
> <http://frostirons.tumblr.com/ask>


End file.
